


so i took myself where i think i should be

by andfinallywearehome



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/F, are we jumping on the christmas bandwagon?, we might be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andfinallywearehome/pseuds/andfinallywearehome
Summary: “Let me guess -” Eve says as she opens the door, eyebrow raised, forgoing a 'hello' “- there’s been an unpredicted international emergency and your other half is somehow involved.”“Not quite.” Q’s cheeks are flushed under all the layers he’s wearing, and his eyes are bright and twinkling with a strange kind of secrecy, like he knows something Eve doesn’t; he looks a little like the illustrations of Santa Claus that are floating around at this time of year. “We’ve got you an early Christmas present, but we have to go now. Pack a bag.”(or, is this an excuse to write christmas fluff? yes, yes it is.)





	so i took myself where i think i should be

**Author's Note:**

> a merry and gay christmas to you all. i wanted some moneyswann and 00q, so ho ho ho, here we are.
> 
>  
> 
> title comes from the song Paris by sabrina carpenter and i own nothing recognisable.

Upon taking up yet another degree in the medical field, Madeleine Swann decides to spend her final year of study abroad.

There’s several places she could have chosen - Germany, Austria, Morocco - and she pours over the paperwork meticulously, day after day, before she has to submit it, but eventually she selects France. Paris, to be more specific.

She’s on a journey back to the place she grew up in, returning to study at the Sorbonne, leaving behind Eve’s poky flat in London for the quaint Parisian streets and the golden glow over the river Seine. They’re places that Eve has seen before, countless times, when she used to be sent out into the field as an agent, but there’s something about the idea of wanting to see them _with Madeleine_ that makes her yearn to be there with her.

“I miss you,” she says over Skype, huddled under a blanket as she watches Madeleine’s pixelated form on screen. She says this every time they call, but this time is particularly poignant. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, London is covered in a thin, powdery layer of snow, and her girlfriend is nearly three hundred miles away; Eve is spending her Christmas alone on the sofa (or at Q’s house if she can coax him away from Bond for more than five minutes).

“I miss you too, _mon chéri_ ,” Madeleine says, and there’s a sad edge to her smile. “But I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Eve swallows back the _that’s what you always say_ that bubbles in her throat, because it’s still Christmas, and she’s not about to stir up an argument over something that’s out of the control of either of them. It’s the same sign-off every week, the end of the calls that Eve, Q and Bond clustered around the laptop in the kitchen - James Bond, who misses Madeleine more than he would ever care to admit. He simply rolls his eyes and tells her not to flatter herself so much when she asks, tongue in cheek, if he’s lonely without her company. Madeleine always laughs, but Eve is sure that she can see through the playful insults because she still always signs off with that _i’ll be back soon_ , and they all know that Bond will be glad when she is.

They sign off soon after, calling goodbyes and promises to talk again on Christmas Day, before Eve is alone again, left in the silence of her empty flat with only her glass of wine for company. She’s considering draining the last of the bottle and calling it a night all together, and is halfway through pouring her third glass of the night, when she’s somewhat startled by a round of thunderous knocking on her front door, as if someone’s hammering on it with their fists. She takes a cautious glance out of the peephole, just in case the big, bad evil in the world hasn’t decided to take the Christmas holidays off, but closer examination shows that it’s only Q, buried under a thick layer of scarves and a brightly coloured bobble hat.

“Let me guess -” Eve says as she opens the door, eyebrow raised, forgoing a _hello_ “- there’s been an unpredicted international emergency and your other half is somehow involved.”

“Not quite.” Q’s cheeks are flushed under all the layers he’s wearing, and his eyes are bright and twinkling with a strange kind of secrecy, like he knows something Eve doesn’t; he looks a little like the illustrations of Santa Claus that are floating around at this time of year. “We’ve got you an early Christmas present, but we have to go now. Pack a bag.”

Eve glances down at her pyjamas - hardly the best outfit to be wearing when running off in the middle of the night on a whim - and then back at her colleague.

“What on earth for?”

“You’ll see.” Q steps over the threshold of her flat, as if to offer his help, squeezing her shoulder with a gloved hand. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

 

/

 

The _surprise_ \- a six hour drive to Paris - would be a lot better, Eve thinks, if the journey wasn’t accompanied by the sound of bickering from the front seat of the Aston Martin.

(But, then again, you can’t always get what you want at Christmas.)

“Stop being so bloody miserable,” Q says, tone petulant, as they pass through the city limits, poised on the edge of London. “It’s in the spirit of Christmas.”

Bond taps the steering wheel with an index finger. “We are _not_ going to blast Christmas songs up the M20 at this time of night. My car, my rules.”

“ _My_ car.” Q gives a defiant huff, even though the sound is void of any real animosity. “I built it, remember? Before _you_ ran off with it.”

“You can’t just reclaim _gifts_ whenever it pleases you,” Bond says, but Eve can see the upward curve of his lip in the dim light coming from the dashboard. “So much for the spirit of Christmas.”

“What happened to the season of giving?” Q returns, and then leans over and flicks the radio on before Bond can stop him. He leans back in his seat, satisfied with his handiwork; Bond lets him have his way in the end, as Eve always sort-of-suspected that he would, because everyone and their mother at MI6 knows how he feels about his quartermaster.

“You’re very cheerful for two people driving through London in the middle of the night,” Eve says, and Bond snorts, which makes her think he’s been somehow coerced into this little adventure. Q simply laughs.

“Merry Christmas, Moneypenny,” he says again, producing a packet of cheese and onion crisps from somewhere and ripping them open to pass around, as Wham begins to warble through the speakers about saving themselves from tears.

 

/

 

The excitement of disappearing into the night eventually catches up with her - Eve drifts off to sleep as they pull into a service station to refill their supplies. When she wakes, they’re somewhere close by the Channel Tunnel, and Q is in the driver’s seat, the radio playing so quiet that it’s barely audible. Bond is dozing in the passenger seat, head resting against the window; careful not to wake him, Eve leans forward in her own seat, meeting Q’s gaze in the rear-view mirror.

“Morning,” he murmurs, careful not to wake their other passenger, and Eve smiles, sleepy and soft.

“Thank you,” she says, voice just as quiet, as they disappear into the tunnel, heading straight for the boarder of France. “For doing this.”

She stretches forward even further, dropping a kiss on the side of his cheek, and they watch the florescent amber lights of the Channel Tunnel flash past beyond the windows of the Aston Martin in comfortable silence.

 

/ 

 

Bond wakes as they turn onto the A16 towards Paris.

Naturally, the bickering from earlier resumes.

“Jesus Christ, Q, don’t they teach you your way around a map in primary school anymore?” Bond’s voice is disgruntled, still a little foggy with sleep. “We’re going _the wrong way_.”

Q sniffs, haughty. “We’re going the _right_ way, thank you very much. I think I can find my way around a map by now.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.” Double-oh seven raises an eyebrow. “Weren’t you just in the boy scouts a few years ago?”

Eve closes her eyes again, leaving her friends to their usual back and forth banter, thinking of all those times she has wished she could experience Paris with her girlfriend, and how lucky she is to have people in her life that are now making those wishes come true.

(Because the truth of the matter is simple: Eve Moneypenny is two hundred and eighty nine miles away from the London she knows, but when Madeleine Swann answers the door of her Parisian apartment at seven in the morning, clad in fuzzy pyjamas, and kisses her like the world could crumble around them at any moment, it feels an awful lot like coming home.)


End file.
